Lotus Under Glass
by Llewellyn McEllis
Summary: The CSI team investigates a string of strange serial murders in which the victim is always set up for an almost peaceful display in a handmade, glass coffin.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Please go easy on me. This is my first ever CSI fic, and while I'm used to writing X-files, there is a grave difference between the two. Usually you only deal with Mulder in Scully, occasionally Skinner, and whatever perps your after, but here there is a whole team of investigators. I am still getting comfortable with the characters and trying to do them justice, while I hope to create an interesting enough tale. Updates may take awhile, as I am a glutton for research and want my profiling and case to be as realistic as possible. Feedback and/or suggestions are appreciated. Thank you in advance for reading.

I. The Fiber of Being

Gil Grissom stood up straight, though he had his head cocked sideways while viewing the scene in front of him. Arms crossed there was a determination in his hard stare, the kind of determination that tended to frighten most people, while putting others to shame. In all his years as a CSI he wished that he could say he'd never seen anything like the room set out before him, but that would be a lie. He had seen the style of this murder not once, not twice, but three times before. The scene was so astonishing that a more morbid technician may have called it beautiful, but Grissom couldn't bring himself to cross that line just yet. In some instances there was beauty in death, yes, but to twist death so carefully into an art form made it serial murder.

"Well?" Sara Sidle took a step inward to stand beside him, the camera still perched in her ready hands. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

He could see from the corner of his eye that she was looking at him, her curious brown eyes both excited and afraid to know what he was thinking. They had always vibrated on a very similar mental wavelength, and though they did not always methodically agree, it was safe to say that sometimes he felt like Sara had the ability to read his mind. "Four bodies in four months, that's one body a month, and until now not a single piece of evidence to even guide us, much less give us any kind of direction."

"Maybe this one's different," Sara had a quirk about her half-smile, which by all means wasn't so much a smile as it was a reassurance that she was still hopeful.

Usually hopeful and Sara didn't go hand in hand, so when it turned out that way, Grissom found it much easier to renew his own hope. "Maybe," he gave a sturdy nod and glanced over his shoulder at her. "I know we were thorough in the past, but if there is a way to be even more thorough than we've already been, let's do it."

Sara lifted the camera to her eye, "You got it!" The sound of camera clicked and hummed as the police team left them to investigate the scene.

Grissom moved carefully around the glass sarcophagus that entombed the body for display. The woman beneath was naked, still perfectly in-tact, and peaceful—as if she were only just sleeping. Her blond hair was brushed and styled, make up delicately applied so that she looked natural, and as Grissom leaned downward to inspect the temporarily untouchable body, he noted that the skin glistened rose, _another attempt by the perp to return life to that which he had deliberately taken it from?_

She was number four. The MO was exactly the same as the other three murders, and as Grissom dusted the clean glass surface for the one single index fingerprint he knew was going to be there, he twisted his mouth just a little when it it materialized in the top left-hand corner of the glass casing. He could almost call off sending it to the lab for analysis. It would be the vic's right index finger. It was just one of the calling cards left behind by this particular serial murderer, but the motivation behind it was still a mystery to Grissom.

He captured the print for analysis and stood upright just as Warrick Brown stepped into the room.

"The landlady ID'd the vic for me. Her name was Marilyn Messenger and according to Mrs. Watkins, Messenger was an exemplary tenant. Never late with her rent, always willing to offer a helping hand when Watkins needed her. She was an advertising executive with a firm downtown called Groebler & Mackey. According to the landlady Messenger's only flaw was her low-life boyfriend. He didn't live her, but he stayed over a lot, and he was always asking for money."

Grissom stretched his neck to the left, "Did you get an ID on the boyfriend?"

"Of course," Warrick smirked, a gesture that almost told Grissom he should know better. "Spencer Florence. She wasn't sure where he lived, but she did know that he drives a 2004 Honda Civic, black. Apparently a gift from the deceased."

Sara stepped into the scene and shook her head, "There's nothing I hate more than a man who takes advantage like that." Grissom knew how much the domestic cases got under Sara's skin. She was more than sensitive about them; she was downright angst-ridden. "But then what are the chances that he's our guy? We've been on this scene three other times. The only thing that's changed is the body, and if I'm correct, we'll leave tonight with nothing more than the victim's right fingerprint no matter how hard we scour the place."

"Even so, it never hurts cover all the bases." Grissom pointed out.

"Yeah, who's to say this Florence won't be able to tell us something?" Warrick added.

Sara shrugged up her left shoulder and looked back over the scene. "I just can't help thinking that there's got to be something we're missing. This is our fourth encounter with this guy, Gris. There's just got to be some kind of clue."

"If you had to profile him based on all the information we've come across, what would you come up with?"

"Well, given the other cases, there are no signs of forced entry, and after analysis we discover there has been no sexual assault or abuse," she started. "The bodies are decorated with make-up so that they appear to still be alive when we discover them."

"So this guy doesn't want to face what he's done," Warrick added. "It's like he's painting them so they still appear to be alive."

"First he builds this bizarre glass coffin so he can watch as they die, but he doesn't like to watch them struggle, so he injects them with anesthesia and then places a candle inside the airtight sarcophagus to eat away the oxygen. We would have to reexamine the previous cases more closely, see if we could find links between the victims, but if I had to bet on it, I'd say he's reenacting the death of someone close to him."

"Let's finish up here," Grissom nodded in agreement. "Then we'll sit down with all the evidence and see what we can come up with."

Sara went back to work and Grissom started toward the glass coffin to remove the lid. Warrick stood for a contemplative moment with his head cocked to the right, his pale eyes squinted in curiosity. "I know we need to reexamine the evidence, but if I remember correctly, all of these women have been fairly young, mid-twenties to late thirties. Maybe he's reliving the death of a spouse?"

Grissom glanced back over his shoulder, a half-grin suppressed by the edge of his shoulder, "That's a definite possibility, Warrick." It never ceased to excite and amaze him how well his team worked together, and how animated they were about their work. "In the meantime, why don't you help me lift this lid? It's a little heavy."

"Oh, right," Warrick nodded, and stepped in to help him out.

With the lid out of the way, Grissom went over inch of the body in search of some kind, any kind of clue. Warrick knelt on the opposite side, going over the base of the coffin for the same reason. After several minutes of silent searching, Warrick noted, "He's obviously building these things himself, and he's quite the craftsman."

"That he is," Grissom agreed. "I want to have the craftsmanship analyzed again, see if Greg can come up with anything, maybe an origin for the glass or the wood. . . "

"Okay."

Grissom was just about to stand up with from the quick corner of his eyes he caught sight of something in the nasal cavity of the victim. He leaned inward with his head cocked curiously, his own head now so close to the body that it nearly brushed the skin. "Warrick, hand me the tweezers from my bag." The sound of shuffling moved behind him and then the cold metal arrived in his gloved, outstretched hand. "Thank you," he muttered, and then lowered the open tweezers into the left nostril. He slowly pulled it out again and clamped between the tips of his tweezers was a small, yellow fiber. "Well, well, well." He held it up to the light, and both Warrick and Sara leaned in to check it out before he lowered it into the envelope for the lab. "I don't want to get our hopes up, but for the first time we have new evidence."

"I'll be damned," Sara was actually smiling. "I'll be damned."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II—Eyes Wide **

_"Bye-bye Celia Mae," Margaret said before turning the corner. "See you tomorrow!" _

_Celia Mae giggled before she called out to her friend, "Don't forgetto use your cootie spray! You're gonna need it after walking home with Icky Nicky! I hope he doesn't try to kiss you!" _

_"Eww!" Margaret screamed with laughter. _

_Nicky felt the blood rush into his face, his temper flaring to life. "Like I'd ever want to kiss you, Margaret! Either of you!" He didn't understand girls or why they were always talking about kissing and then making all those eww and gross noises about it. Not that he would have really wanted to kiss either of them. The thought of kissing anyone, even his mama was starting to make his stomach turn.   
_

_Celia Mae stuck out her tongue and jammed her thumbs into her ears to wiggle her fingers. Just watching her do it made Nicky want to pick up the first rock he found and throw it so that it whizzed just past her head, close enough that she could feel the wind of it, close enough that it scared that stupid expression from her face forever. He stopped himself, though, hearing the warning of his mama's voice inside his head. _

_ "You better get on home, Celia Mae," he called after her instead. He wore a smug smirk that stretched his freckled face in condescension. "You better hurry on before the Baby Napper gets you!"   
_

_ The Baby Napper was the daylight version of the boogey man. All the kids in their neighborhood knew who the Baby Napper was by name, and while none of them had ever been stolen away all one had to do was mention the Baby Napper to invoke fear in a child walking home alone. Nicky called after her in a sing-song voice, "The Baby Napper, Baby Napper! You're gonna get taken by the Baby Napper!"   
_

_Maria shoved him from the side, "Shut up, Nicky!"   
_

_"Yeah," Celia Mae called from the other side of the street. "Shut up, Icky Nicky."   
_

_"Why don't you make me?"   
_

_Celia curled her upper lip and snarled, "Why don't _you_ make me?"  
__   
"I don't make trash, I burn it!"   
_

_"Nicholas!" The sound of his mother's voice from the end of the walk startled him out of fighting mode. "Nicholas, you leave those girls alone and get home right this minute."   
_

If only she hadn't come out on the porch_, his squinted eyes seem to say to Celia Mae.__   
_

_"Bye-bye, Nicky," Celia smiled in such a sickening way that he hoped her face froze that way forever. She was so self-conscious about the way she looked having her face frozen ugly would serve her right.   
_

_His mother was watching, her look warning him not to even reply.   
_

_"Bye, Mrs. Stokes," she called out in a false, goody-two-shoes song.   
_

_"You get on home before I call your mama, Celia Mae!" Nick felt a satisfied grin spread across his face as he stepped up onto the porch. "You too, Margaret. I don't want to have to call up your Gramma and tell her you been starting trouble." Margaret scurried up the street, glancing only once back over her shoulder to see if Nicky and his Mama were still watching. She reached out and tousled her son's black hair. "One of these days you're gonna regret all that fighting, Nicky."   
_

_"They started it," he huffed the bangs off of his forehead and brushed past her. "All their talk about kissing and junk. It's just sick."   
_

_His mama laughed. "One of these days you'll feel different about that too."   
_

_"Not me," he shook his head, turning back to stop the screen door from slamming with his hand.   
_

_The scene shifted quickly, as if someone had reached out and sped the hands of time forward. Nicky, his mother and his grandfather were sitting at the dinner table. The only sound was of silver flatware occasionally clanking or scraping against the china. Nicky was piling the peas into a pyramid on his plate, and though she didn't say anything, he could feel his mama watching him. His grandfather cleared his throat. He was just about to scold Nicky for playing with his food when a heavy knock feel on the front door. Both adults moved instinctively and chairs scraped against the hardwood floor.   
_

_"I'll get it, Janine, you finish your dinner," his grandfather insisted. "Nicholas, I want to see all those vegetables gone from your plate when I come back."   
_

_Nicky swallowed. "Yessir."   
_

_He and his mother continued eating in silence while they listened to the muffled voices in the front room. Almost five minutes passed before his grandfather came back but instead of taking his seat, he gestured for Nicky to rise from the table.   
_

_"What is it, Dad?" His mother folded her napkin and started to stand up.   
_

_Nicky felt a swishing sickness in the pit of his stomach, the kind that usually accompanied knowing you had done something wrong. Only Nicky hadn't done anything wrong, at least nothing he could remember. "Come on, son."   
_

_"Dad?"   
_

_His grandfather waved her off and shook his head. "I'm sure it's nothing, Janine."   
_

_Only it didn't feel like nothing as Nicky was guided into the front room by his grandfather's firm hand. He saw the outline of a figure on the other side of the screen door and squirmed to look up and around at his grandfather. His grandfather didn't look at him, only guided him to the door and pushed the screen open for him to step outside. There was Mrs. Johnson, Celia Mae's mother, her eyes pink around the edges like she'd been crying. She was wringing her dried out hands together in front of her apron, and as soon as she saw Nick those pink eyes grew hopeful.   
_

_"Nicky, Mrs. Johnson here wants to know if you seen Celia Mae."   
_

_"No, sir," he shook his head quickly. "Not since after school, sir."   
_

_Mrs. Johnson took a desperate step toward him, "Are you sure, Nicky?"   
_

_"Yes, ma'am." The sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach grew worse with every breath, with every twist of the pink, dried out hands on Mrs. Johnson's apron.   
_

_"You didn't see her out here playing at all? She didn't walk by at all?"   
_

_"No, ma'am."   
_

_"You're sure, Nicky?"   
_

_"Now _ _Charlotte__," his grandfather intervened, his hand stiff on Nicky's shoulder once again. "The boy said he hasn't seen Celia Mae."   
_

_The screen door groaned behind them. "What's going on, _ _Charlotte__?"   
_

_Her teary eyes turned toward Nicky's mama. "It's Celia Mae," she croaked. "She never came home today after school."   
_

_Nicky had been watching his mama when Charlotte Johnson made that announcement. He'd seen the white of her skin grow even more pale with worry. "Oh no," his mama said. "Let me get my sweater, Charlotte. I'll help you look for her."   
_

_"Can I help too, Mama?"   
_

_His mother and grandfather exchanged sharp glances, and before his mother could answer, his grandfather said, "You get on inside and finish those peas before I tan your hide, young man."   
_

_"Yessir," he scurried into the house and took his seat at the table, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't swallow another pea that night, not even to save his own hide.   
_

_Once more the scene shifted. Several weeks had passed since that day, but word was out for all the kids to fear. The Baby Nappers really had taken Celia Mae. Everyone was meant to double up on the walk to and from school, but that afternoon Nicky had been asked to stay after and clap out erasers. He could still smell the chalk dust clinging to the hairs in his nose as he walked home from school. Head down and hands stuffed into his pockets, he watched the pebbles scatter from the tip of his shoes while the weight in his knapsack shifted from side to side with every step.   
_

_He was thinking about how he was going to get into trouble if his mother found out he had walked home by himself. Even worse, the paranoia of becoming the Baby Nappers next victim stuck in his dry throat like the dust from those erasers. His heart escalated a few beats more a minute, and he reasoned with himself that if he kept his head down and his shoulders up it would be like he was invisible. Scattered stones skittered, shoes scuffed and the dusty _ _Texas__ earth left little puffs of dust behind him. The sun was too hot for a jacket, too much like summer and he thought about stopping to take it off and stuff it into his knapsack when the sunlight caught on something shiny not too far away. Nicky turned his head, curious as to what it could be and his footsteps quickened just a little. There was nothing like a little piece of treasure to make a long day worthwhile, he thought.   
_

_The sunlight glinted rainbow patterns, as if it shone through fancy cut glass. He knew that it was called a prism, but at the moment he couldn't think of the exact word for it. He had picked up his pace to a jaunt. He could hear kids laughing and screaming somewhere close by and again he thought about getting into trouble. Maybe he should forget about the treasure, but the way glistened seemed as if it were specifically calling out to him. He reasoned that if it were nice enough he could give it to his mama to make her forget about being angry with him for coming home alone.   
_

_It was then like a dark cloud or a shadow had passed over the sun, and for a moment everything around him was grey. Nick stumbled to a halt, his mind not quite processing the scene before him, even though it was perfectly aware. The first thing he'd seen had not been the prism that had drawn him in that direction, but the distinct pinkness of a small, bare foot. That bare foot was connected to bare leg, and while his mind raced over the horribly real scene in front of him the sun came slowly out from behind its cloud. It glinted for a moment, caught on the same shining surface that had drawn Nicky in that direction. The dulled gold chain wrapped tight around her fragile wrist in such a way that it had left abrasions on the skin. He tried to look away, but her wide eyed and fearful expression drew him in. Her small mouth was open, and Nicky thought that he heard her screaming. Only later would he learn that those screams had been his own. . .  
_

Nick Stokes jerked awake to the contrived sound of a news reporter's voice, her well practiced sympathy combined with perfectly executed seriousness should have gone straight over his head, but it was the subject matter that had alerted his senses. ". . . classmate discovered the body of seven year old Martina Villanova this afternoon while walking home from school. Villanova was abducted two weeks earlier during her routine walk home from school. Following brief comment from Sheriff Rory Atwater, there are no suspects as of yet, but Atwater has assured us that the police department are working very carefully with the Las Vegas CSI team. . ."

He clicked off the television and ran a trembling hand through his hair. What were the odds, Nick thought. What were the odds that subliminally just hearing of that case in his sleep had turned up the dark memory of Celia Mae Johnson. It wasn't that Nick never thought about Celia Mae. Sometimes he even accredited his passion for forensic science to having discovered that poor little girl the way he had. Sometimes he could still see her face in the faces of all the innocent children they found murdered. Mostly, however, he felt disturbed at the similarity between this new case and the one he had been involved himself. He only hoped that whoever was working on that case took care to remember they were working with children.

vvv

Warrick was seated in front of the computer with his mouth twisted into a curious position when Nick walked in—his hair still wet from the shower. He paused in the doorway and crossed his arms, watching Warrick for several minutes with a slightly bemused grin. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and took a few steps into the office.

"Are you working the Villanova case?"

Warrick's mouth smoothed into its normal shape and he stretched his neck to relieve the cricks and aches of twenty-seven straight hours without sleep. "No, I'm working the Messenger murder with Grissom and Sara. What are you doing here, man? I thought you were on vacation."

"Yeah, well," Nick shrugged and turned a smile into the shoulder of his black leather jacket. "Do you know ho is working the Villanova case?"

"Nah, man," he shook his head. "I've been wrapped up in this for hours. Do you know how many standard flat glass manufacturers there are in Nevada alone?"

Nick held up a hand in defeat.

"At least twenty-three too many, and not a single one of them with a distinction between their product that might shed some light on this investigation."

"Not another one from the glass casket guy," Nick sighed. His expression darkened even further when Warrick nodded. "Any new evidence?"

"Grissom found a fiber in the vic's nasal cavity." There was a hopeful rise in his tone. "I haven't heard anything on that yet. Possible suspect, the vic's boyfriend . . . they're bringing him in for me to interview sometime in the next hour. In the meantime, I'm trying to isolate the glass manufacturer, with no luck."

"So you have no idea then who might be in charge of the Villanova case?"

"I'm not even sure I know which case that is."

"Little girl, seven years old. . . discovered by her schoolmate?"

Warrick made the gesture of a half-shrug mixed with an unknowing head-shake. "I haven't heard anything about it." A sigh followed his admission. "Maybe check with Catherine?"

"Yeah," Nick nodded in agreement. "Thanks man, I'll do that."

Nick turned and left the office, and Warrick rubbed his face in his hands. He was so tired that his skin felt like rubber as he pulled and pinched it. He had long passed the place where coffee was of any use and was simply running on the fumes of the case itself. A knock rose at the door, and a disgruntled breath escaped him only moments before. Detective Brass stuck his head into the room and announced, "Your suspect is here, Warrick."

"Yeah, all right." He rose from the work bench and stretched his neck again. He reached into his pocket and opened his eyes wide before dropping in a few rewetting drops. He blinked until his eyes felt almost normal, and then he started toward the door. A few simple gestures and Warrick had stimulated his mind enough to draw it back into focus. He was definitely going to need it in order to question this suspect properly.


End file.
